The platter was completely empty. Great Auntie Alma and I stared at the remaining oil spots, my dreams of a peaceful pre-Thanksgiving dinner draining down the garbage disposal.
“They’re all gone?” Great Auntie Alma asked incredulously. “We haven’t even had
A stranger in a wool overcoat retreats from the panicked crowd and stops next to me. I was surveying the starry horizon when he drew near. He seems calm.
I stick out my hand. “It seems we’re in the same situation. My name is Daniel Bradford.”
The crypt was cold, as expected. What I didn’t expect as I stepped toward my family’s section was the torch light and the murmured words. Nobody visited this crypt; nobody mourned the loved ones entombed there. Nobody but me, of course.
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He paced outside the wrought-iron fence, eyeing the bright-red brick Victorian mansion as if a monster lurked within. His first time back since…
And his first time seeing her again in many years.
A plaque by the open gate read The Big House: Home for
“Perfect weather, Benji,” drawled Mac.
The forest was cold, it was damp, and it was getting dark. “How so?” I said.
“Snow on its way. That’ll cover the grave.”
Mac, carrying the head end of the shrouded corpse, peered into the gathering gloom…
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It was a blustery day in October of 1880 when Sherlock Holmes was summoned to a student tenement near the University of London. The telegram requested my presence as well, which was unusual. I went willingly since I had no other appointments that morning.
Lestrade met us outside in the street, visibly shaken and white as a sheet.
I dive into the water.
Bubbles explode around me, floating to the surface as water passes through my gills, replenishing the air in my lungs. The slight oceanic pressure is comforting, and I relax. It feels like home.
But Axel warned me not to go all sentimental again. We’ve only got an hour before
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“Take me to Mykonos,” the drunk young man said to no one as I walked by. He was slouched in a chair outside a taverna, the exterior of which was drowning in bougainvillea. It was very early to be that drunk—but who was I
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The alley off Lima’s Jirón de la Union looked like a scene from the past. Shayla spotted the sign in the hodgepodge of others, hand-lettered and sun-bleached: Sellos Únicos. Souvenirs del Alma.
Perfect, she thought.
She angled her phone’s camera to frame the shop’s warped doorway and hit record.
Long ago in China, a boy named Yan ran as fast as he could, squinting against the westward sun as it cast shadows on the mountain path. A cry caught his attention. He looked up, seeing an old man perched on a rock and waving a tin cup.
“I’m thirsty,” the man said. “I cannot reach the stream below.
Mateo glanced at his lock screen and huffed. They should have left for the concert fifteen minutes ago. Where was Dylan?
He dialed his friend’s number yet again, but it went to voicemail for the fourth time.
Beep!
“Dylan, come on, man!
“Ah, I did say I would match you drink for drink, didn’t I?” Nathaniel Markson sways as he pulls another whiskey off a passing server’s tray. His flushed cheeks are evidence that he’s had far more drinks beyond the three with you.
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